


Silly Meat Dagger

by rideswraptors



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Meat Dagger!Tom, No I haven't watched series 3 yet, angry!molly, fuck tom, i hate tom, it's problematic because there's no end to the hiatus in near sight, just after Sherlock returns, scheming!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 05:46:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4336175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rideswraptors/pseuds/rideswraptors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meat dagger hurts Molly. Sherlock finds out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silly Meat Dagger

She'd broken their date at noon the day of when Mike came to tell her of an impromptu interdepartmental staff meeting at 6:00, the department heads would return from their conference. These things always lasted forever and Molly knew she'd be in no mood to spend time with her fiancé after arguing with men twice her age about archaic protocols only they saw any benefit in. Tom took it well, as he always did, she promised to make dinner for him the next day.

Since Sherlock's return, work had been keeping her so busy she could barely see straight. If it wasn't one of the other pathologists running in to ask her to cover a shift, it was a tech screwing up a sample or Sherlock sweeping in with John at his heels needing time-sensitive information. Sherlock especially had been calling for her assistance with greater frequency. Usually with his personal experiments or just for assistance with a case. John hadn't fully recovered from his best friend's return, obviously, and had been preoccupied with Mary and their baby-on-the-way. When Sherlock was bored, he annoyed Mrs. Hudson (or Mycroft or John or Scotland Yard) and set things on fire. When he was lonely, he came to Bart's. Since his return, he said the lab was the only place that didn't make him want to shoot things and Molly didn't mind the company. She'd been so hungry for his particular company after his being away that she had a difficult time saying no to any of his requests. And after he had been using again, getting mysteriously shot, and dating Mary's maid of honor, not only Molly was convinced that Sherlock Holmes was in dire need of supervision. John asked her to check in with Sherlock while he and Mary were away on their "sex holiday" (Sherlock's term) and it was easiest for him to drop by the lab. It took some convincing to get him to drop by at least once a day, that is until she threatened to send Scotland Yard over to his flat for a urine sample every day and have Mycroft station a baby sitter outside his door until further notice. Apparently Sherlock didn’t put such low tactics beyond her because he stopped by twice a day, and usually with coffee. He came by one time when Tom was visiting, had hardly reacted, and even shook Tom's hand before going to his preferred station. This led to Tom asking how often Sherlock came by which led to a minor tiff, but what was she supposed to say?

For once, the root of Molly's misery was not the fault of Sherlock Holmes. No matter what Tom said. The meeting had finished by 8:30 and she'd felt so guilty about the argument from the other day she thought she'd surprise him with biscuits he adored from the bakery a block from his flat. She got there by 9:00, used her key, and had entered what appeared to be an empty flat. That is until she saw the ballet flats in the living room. Tom's favorite jumper was strewn across the sofa and a not-her-bra in front of the door to his bedroom. So awkward. So humiliating. She'd wanted to scream. Acting uncharacteristically, Molly threw open the door to find him in bed with his devastatingly attractive neighbor and started shouting a crying, flinging the ring at him as he scrambled (unsuccessfully) out of bed. The woman (Joanna?) hid her face in the pillow, clearly mortified. Tom had tried to beg her, plead with her, and then finally abused her with the typical excuses. She worked too much, he wanted to feel wanted again, and _she_ was still in love with Sherlock Holmes! Molly still contends he blackened his own eye because honestly she didn’t remember doing it.

The rest of that night consisted of ignoring her phone and throwing his things out her window. She cried and cried and cried and cuddled with Toby before calling her mum. She called in sick to work the next day, but she couldn't escape Sherlock. He'd gotten used to checking in with her, even if John and Mary had already gotten back. He swung by her apartment to swap medical journals and look for an old podiatrist's reference tome he was sure she had? He was ranting about a case and looking for the book when she passed him tea and he stopped cold.

“Where's your ring?”

“Tom has it.”

“Why?”

“Sherlock, not now...”

“What did he do? You've been crying obviously, all night from the looks of it, there are 2 empty wine bottles, you called in sick today which in the 5 years we've worked together you've never done except for hospitalization but that was only a precautionary test, and your feline has been positively territorial since I walked in, common in domesticated animals highly attuned to the moods of their caretakers, so I'll ask again. What did he do?"  
           

Truthfully, she was impressed he'd held onto his observations for so long. He'd been better about it since she slapped him for the drugs. She and Tom had broken up temporarily, but they'd gotten back together that night. Just stress, they'd laughed. Stress. She was getting angry and weepy all over again when she realized Sherlock was livid and waiting for an answer. Molly smiled weakly and took the tea back for herself.

“Found him in bed with his neighbor last night. Been going on for a while apparently. Been too busy to notice, I guess.”

“He's been having an affair?”

“I'm surprised you didn't deduce it first actually. You didn't, did you?" For once the great Sherlock Holmes struggled with words. Either he did and felt guilty for not saying anything or didn’t, and was embarrassed. “Doesn’t matter. I broke it off. Satisfied?” Molly was feeling slightly furious at everything. Tom’s cheating. Fucking meetings. Damn Sherlock Holmes interrupting the one day she needed for herself. She wanted to hit someone again, break things, but she was exhausted from crying and besides, her hand still ached from hitting Tom. Which Sherlock also noticed, picking her hand up to examine it, his eyes rose to meet hers and Molly shuddered at the harshness she saw there. Molly knew that look. She didn’t like it.

“Not by half,” he finally responded.

“Sherlock..?”

“Rest Molly,” he interrupted, meeting her temple with his lips. “Just rest.” He swept out of her apartment like he'd never been there. The medical journals he'd eagerly asked for lay forgotten on her end table.

Besides answering a few emails and crying during some terrible soap on telly, the rest of the morning was quiet. But that was shot straight to hell when John and Mary Watson showed up at her door step with comfort food and wine around 3:30. Toby was pleased to have more attention, but Molly was wary.

“Sherlock texted. Said your engagement was off?” John prompted, tripping over Toby and groceries trying to get to the kitchen.

“Sherlock texted you?”

“Mrs. Hudson would have come too, but she was visiting with family.”

“This really isn't...”

“Hush Molly,” Mary snapped imperiously, “you're family and you're in pain and you shouldn't be alone right now.” The two women locked gazes to the sound of John cursing about the cat and tight spaces and smiled at one another before Mary hugged her and sat on the couch. “Now, tell me all about what the rotten bastard did.”

John joined them momentarily, making few to no comments only examining, cleaning, and wrapping her injured hand without being told it was necessary. It was only after they left that Molly realized what they had offered was exactly what she'd needed. Familiar faces who didn't blame or pity her, who weren't utterly abusive of Tom but not singing his praises, company who were equally happy to talk to her about work, uni memories, Sherlock's antics, and her break up. And food. She hadn't eaten since before the staff meeting the night before. Mary's shepherd’s pie and bread pudding had fit the bill perfectly. They left before 7:00 and by then Molly was exhausted and in desperate need of a bath and another good cry. She managed to be efficient, always and forever efficient clever little Molly, she cried in the tub, pretending the tears were drips from her hair. Toby curled up on the toilet seat cover, interested only in being present. By the time she was ready to get out, she was pruny and light headed. She didn't want to move. Worthless worthless worthless. Pathetic little Molly thinking she could get a happy ending, stupid trusting Molly. Always her fault. Always. Instead of getting out, Molly fell asleep in the tub.

**

Sherlock moved quickly up the stairs to Molly's flat, eager to see her condition for himself. John assured him repeatedly that she was holding up remarkably well that her hand thankfully wasn't broken only bruised. But Sherlock wasn't satisfied. Not yet. His pathologist was remarkably skilled at pretense, dismissive of her hurts even with the closest of friends, always concerned with appearances. He didn't expect that the Watsons would bring her any considerable relief, but he at the very least was assured that she wasn't alone while he took care of things.

Sherlock approached her door to find it locked and his knocks unanswered leaving him no choice but to use the key he'd made for himself in case of emergencies. It was nearing 10:00 and distraught though she may be Molly never went to bed before 11:30. He swept in to find the apartment relatively clean and no empty alcohol bottles to be seen. Mary had taken them then. But neither was Molly anywhere to be seen. There was a faint sent of lavender and as he rounded the corner back toward the spare room, Toby surfaced from the bathroom to investigate the intruder. Finding Sherlock (and leaving a considerable amount of hair around the ankles of his pants), the cat was satisfied and slid his way back into the bathroom. Sherlock followed to find Molly asleep in the tub, which had clearly gone cold, pruny and shivering. “Oh, Dr. Hooper, what will we do with you?”

It took no considerable effort to get her out of the tub. She was startled to find him there, but clearly exhausted and cold. Molly accepted his help and a robe without comment and he was able to usher her into her room, pajamas and under the covers in no more than five minutes. Five silent minutes. He was disturbed to see her so low, to see all the energy drained from her, no embarrassment or self-consciousness about Sherlock in her personal and private spaces because she most likely believed she was hallucinating. It made the past day's mission all the more sweet and he couldn't wait for the morning news.

Molly could. Morning came far too soon. And she would have stayed in bed if she hadn't woken up not remembering how she'd gotten there. Surely? No. The last thing she remembered was falling asleep in the tub. She started, jumping out of bed when she heard the slamming of a pan and a drawer. Wrapping herself in a robe and grabbing the bat from under the bed, Molly tiptoed out into the living room and started to turn toward the kitchen when she ran into six feet of Holmes carrying cat food.

“Fuck all, Sherlock!!” She shrieked dropping the bat before she impulsively hit him for scaring her. To his credit, Sherlock had enough sense to leap back when he notice her armed. A little gun shy still, apparently.

“Christ's sake Molly, announce yourself before creeping around corners!”

“Creeping! Creeping? This is my place! You're the one...is that cat food?”

He looked suddenly sheepish.“Your feline is obnoxiously loud when hungry it was either toss him out or feed him, given your current state, I chose the latter.”

“Good choice,” she snarked, looking around him into the kitchen. “What are you even doing here? I thought you had a case.”

“Wrapped it up yesterday afternoon, he agreed, sweeping past her to feed her ‘feline.’ “But Gordon...”

"Greg.”

“Wanted to be sure some of the particulars were air tight so it took longer than expected otherwise I would have been here. I sent John and Mary as a substitute, but John is hardly given to my level of detail, so I came by to see you myself.”

“Wait, you sent them?”

“I found you asleep in the tub, not exactly the brightest thing to do. If I'd been an hour later you might have succumbed to hypothermia.” He had moved past her again to gather up the breakfast he'd been preparing for her and started setting the table. Two places. She didn’t like his tone. He wasn’t her bloody hero for running to her rescue.

“I would have woken up. Wait...how did you get in?”

“It took some doing to get you into the proper clothing, you were quite stubborn about it.” He sat her in a chair and took the chair along the opposite side of the corner and actually started eating. Molly was so stunned momentarily that it took her a bit long to process.

“That's not...You DRESSED me? Meaning you found me naked and you...how did you even...”

“Well I..-” She cut him off by putting her hand over his mouth, managing somehow to hide her amusement when he flinched again, still not comfortable with her hands near his face.

“No shut up no. Just...thank you. I appreciate it. But no. Just eat.”

They ate in silence for a while until Sherlock decided he wanted the morning news on. He flopped on the sofa while she cleared the table and she didn't notice what was on screen until she wandered back in with her book.

“What case were you on anyway? Private mat...oh my god! Tom?”

_"Nearly one kilo of pure cocaine was found in Londoner Thomas ---'s apartment last night. The Scotland Yard was given a tip that --- was dealing out of his uptown flat and he, along with six other dealers, was arrested last night. And still more to come. Scotland Yard is hoping that with the confessions of this ring of dealers, they could bring down London's most prolific cartel. -- was a notable instructor at King's whose fiancé has left him after the revealing of his heinous crimes..."_

“Oh. My. God.”

Sherlock's head popped up from the sofa.

“Not good?”

“Sherlock what did you...?”

“Called in a few favors, planted it while he was out. Vice was already busting high up dealers in the neighborhood, though I’d add one to the list.”

“Lestrade knows about this?”

“Suggested it, in fact. Never really liked Meat Dagger.”

“Sherlock.”

“I know, I know, I know. Childish, illegal, morally wrong. He'll be cleared in 32 hours. Just long enough and horrid enough to ruin his month and reputation.”

“Not good, Sherlock.”

He pouted. “I had to do something. My hands were tied.”

“No Sherlock, it's not good because you forgot about his whore. She lives next door, she could have been a buyer.”

He stared at her wide-eyed and silent for a long few moments before the broke up laughing. They only settled down when Molly managed to slide next to him, her sides sore from trying to restrain herself. Felt good. She hadn’t laughed in a while, not with any sort of sincerity anyway. Sherlock told her all about his conversations with Greg Lestrade and several of the officers from the vice department, who had no qualms whatsoever about making a mess for the man who had broken Molly Hooper’s heart. ( _You’re quite liked with that lot you know, said they preferred you loads more than the strange older gentleman with the cheek tick and the young man who always smells like bad curry_.) It had been a simple enough favor actually, “Shezza” convinced an old pal to have one of his dealers stash a kilo in Tom’s apartment; said dealer would get full immunity of course, but because he was already testifying in a murder case involving five of the other dealers arrested that night. ( _Part of an ongoing case, you see, it was simple enough_.) The first dealer would confess that he’d only hidden the drugs in Tom’s apartment for safe-keeping, ( _I strictly instructed him to say on the record he did it because the occupant seemed like a meat dagger-kind of idiot_.) so there would be no real harm done to Tom in the end, just a few nights in lock up, excessive lawyer fees, and maybe a bit of trouble at work and from wealthy junkies looking to score. So no _real_ harm done ( _You’re not angry with me are you?_ ).

“You shouldn’t…you didn’t have to do any of that.”

“Well, mm, not to disagree, but yes, yes I did.”

“It was falling apart anyway. If I hadn’t found out about her, I might have broken it off in the next month or so.”

“No, not an excuse.”

“Don’t be difficult.” Sherlock, straightened uncomfortably and very seriously attempted to make his body language seem more open. However, it was so conscious a gesture that it couldn’t be anything but awkward and Molly appreciated the effort so much that she almost started to tear up again. She knew she _should_ be more conscious of the fact that she was alone with Sherlock Holmes in her apartment when she should be getting for work.

“I already called in for you.” Molly opened her mouth to argue, but snapped it shut again not seeing the point. Bloody mind reader. His gaze was intent on her and she shifted uncomfortably, taking a sip of her tea while she waited for him to gain whatever momentum he needed to make his statement; probably something forcibly dull, like she could do better or that there are more fish out there or that sentiment is a characteristic of the losing side.

“May I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“I can’t judge if it’s not good or not, if John were here he’d be able to tell, but as it is…”

“Sherlock, just ask.”

“Why is Tom so different? You’ve broken up with a dozen men since I’ve known you…”

“Eleven.”

“Like I said a dozen men, and some of them have done worse things to you than shag the neighbor-woman. Why should this one make you any sadder than the rest? Is it more important?” For all of Sherlock’s brilliant qualities, there was a certain logic to feelings he couldn’t quite connect. Feelings are obvious to most people the way guilt is obvious Sherlock. It’s an intrinsic understanding. In the past, she would have been offended, asked him to leave, maybe burst into tears. Of course Tom was _different_ and more important. They had been _engaged,_ damn it! And already she was speaking of him in terms of past tense, blast it all. But Sherlock didn’t see that.

“Can I ask you something first before I answer?” He obliged. “Why were you so certain that I wasn’t the cause of the break up? You came here and asked me what he’d done, not _what happened_ , but what _he’d done_.”

“I would have thought that obvious. Clearly this relationship has done nothing for your self-esteem.” She controlled the flinch. “Molly, since I’ve met you, you’ve dated twelve and a half men. (Who’s the half? _The one without a testicle._ He lost it to cancer, that’s not very nice. _The man had syphilis, Molly, and didn’t tell you before shagging you, you’re lucky I noticed it._ Yes, I just loved spending the day in the ER getting tested for syphilis which I didn’t have. _You couldn’t not know if he’d given you a venereal disease, Molly!_ ) As I said, twelve and a half, and every single time they make their flaws so obvious and intolerable that you have to quit them or I make those flaws known so that you can’t ignore them. No one encroached upon being good enough for you, and _that_ is how I knew it was Mea-Tom.”

“You were going to say Meat Dagger.”

“Nonsense,” he snipped back, perfectly composed. Molly let a laugh out through her nose, looking down into her tea. She wished he would be this agreeable when other people were around, when there were witnesses. He made it so difficult to defend her actions in regard to him, but she’d always do it.

“ _Tom_ was different, was important because I picked him for a reason. He was dull, and not very bright, and he looked…well…”

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked away, she could see a tinge of a blush on the tips of his cheekbones. “Yes, well…” She smiled.

“He was safe. He was supposed to give me what I wanted. And more importantly he would never find me out. Clueless, silly Molly, who never really wanted what he was offering. Stupid Molly who was probably a little bit repulsed by the idea of being domesticated. I know we both like to blame you for ruining my relationships ( _You dated Moriarty_. You deduced he was gay. _He wanted me, was that so far off?_ ) Anyway. The truth is that I pick the ones who won’t stay. I’m not as trusting as you like to think, I _let_ you take advantage Sherlock. I’d say yes if you’d just ask me, but I figured all the false flattery and manipulating, it’s your way of asking. I’m not as stupid as everyone seems to believe.”

“You’re not stupid at all. In fact you’re one of the least stupid of the human population I’ve encountered thus far.”

She chuckled. “High praise.”

“Exceedingly.”

She met his gaze again, but for whatever reason couldn’t make herself hold it. “It hurts more this time because he’s the kind that does stay, Sherlock. He’s the kind who tries to make his partner happy. Whatever his reasons for cheating, I drove him to it. And for once it has absolutely nothing to do with you and everything to do with me. And if that’s true, then maybe…maybe I’m not worth staying for.”

Sherlock had been remarkably restrained and quiet while she spoke, even though she stuttered (which annoyed him) and took too long to form words (which confused her). In fact, he was just staring at her. Shocked? Confused? Molly couldn’t really say, but stare he did.

“I’ve stayed.” She snorted. “I have!”

“Sherlock you stay because I do you favors all the time, and I get you body parts from the lab as gifts, and that’s not what I meant anyway.”

“I’ve had multitudes of opportunities to work with other pathologists, offers to do my research in labs at universities all over the country, in other countries, with people who have better degrees, titles, and equipment than you. No, no, no don’t be offended, they’re incompetent, you can tell from…Never mind. The point, Dr. Hooper is that insufferable ass that I am, I have continuously chosen to work with you and near you because of your skill, dedication, and wonderful common sense. Not to mention your remarkable ability to tolerate my quirks. But beyond that, I hadn’t realized how often I’d turned away other opportunities until after my death and how often it was for as thin a reason as the weather or a case that turned up (inevitably no more than a 4 at best).” Molly raised her eyebrows, thinking she knew where he was going, but she didn’t want to lead him there. If he was going to say what she thought he might say, he’d have to get there on his own. “Yes, you’ve already deduced. Mawkish sentiment. _You,_ Dr. Hooper, are my pathologist, and anyone else simply wouldn’t do. And that isn’t _flattery_ , it’s a failing on my part.”

“Right. The losing side.”

“No. I didn’t lose. You saved me, Molly, more than you know. _We won._ ” They had shifted closer together on the sofa without Molly realizing it. Maybe while he’d been talking? She didn’t really know, but he was a _furnace_. How did anyone run that hot all the time? Her self-consciousness returned full force, making her blush, so strong a blush she could feel it in her belly and it was mortifying. She needed a glass of water…or an ice bath. There just didn’t seem to be enough space to retreat.

“Well, thank you. And you’re welcome, I suppose?” She tried to shift away, tried to regain that distance between them, but he kept steady eye contact and reached for her wrist, gently placing her back where she was.

“I could have stood by and let you marry him if I thought he’d make you happy. If I thought anyone could make you happy, I’d let you go. You know that, don’t you?” She nodded. “But it seems even the best of them are inadequate. I’m not…I can’t give you anything resembling normal, Molly. Inappropriate as it is, you’ve not been broken up twenty four hours, I just can’t—.” he reached out to brush a stray strand  of hair behind her ear, an action so intimate and strange for them that Molly was afraid to move, afraid it would end too quickly. This limbic, nebulous space between them was intoxicating; a bubble so filled with pressure, she almost couldn’t take it. “I’m too damn selfish and I can’t go through it again. Give me a chance, I’ll fuck it right to hell right out the gate, but I just can’t --” She cut him off with a kiss, sweet as that bubble was, she hated staying in it. She’d _lived_ in that bubble with Tom, so giddy and false and wonderful until it wasn’t. Sherlock, and everything she felt for him, that was all real. His feelings, poorly arrived at, inadequately and clumsily summarized, those were real. Solid. No more floating in between wishing she were on the other side of it. No more waiting. He hadn’t responded quickly enough for her, more shocked than anything, so she was practically crawling into his lap, hands on his face, opening his mouth with hers.

If she had taken even a moment to think about it, she would have been horrified by her behavior. Everything about Sherlock screamed virgin, screamed NEEDS PERSONAL SPACE, and she invaded it so thoroughly and so without thought that there hadn’t been any time to gauge his reactions. She must have seemed so desperate, but she couldn’t bring herself to care because right when she needed some kind of encouragement, Sherlock surged up to meet her. One hand went to the back of her neck, jerking her at an angle he wanted, his other arm was employed solely to keep her tightly to him. And, by god, could the boy kiss. He teased and provoked, engulfed her, not quite content to let her control the pace or keep the upper hand. Somehow, he maneuvered her onto her back, flat on the sofa, hovering over her, pressing kisses to her face, forehead, and chin. Molly couldn’t think. She was breathing so hard, all she could manage was to graze his lips whenever they passed hers.

“Stop thinking,” he grumbled, trying to encourage her legs around his hips.

“You’re one to talk.”

“Yes, well, when I think, granted not thinking about a case, I’m thinking about you. Not working myself into a good panic when things seem too good to be true.” She rapped him lightly on the cheek for that; he didn’t flinch as hard, but his face screwed up. Before he could say anything else approaching insulting, Molly pulled him back down to her, instigating a deeper, slower kiss, not quite so rough or eager. He licked his way into her, rhythmic and begging for reciprocation. She slid her hands into his curls, tightened her legs around his torso and was smugly gratified to hear his faint groan.

“Sherlock?” she said around his kisses, which had taken on a more playful quality, teasing, experimental. And Molly had _no_ desire to know just how “experimental” it might actually be.

“Mmm?”

“You still can’t (kiss) have Mr. Wallace’s (kiss) head (kiss). Completely illegal.” Sherlock pulled up from her, an impish kind of amusement on his face, the likes of which she hadn’t seen before. It suited him.

“Well if that’s your answer…” he made as if to get up before Molly slapped his chest with a faux outraged shriek. He was actually _flirting_ with her. He settled himself back down between the vee of her legs, face buried in the side of her neck, such a lovely weight on top of her.

“All my well-laid schemes,” he joked while lavishing attention on her pulse, “up in bloody flames.”

“You’re terrible.” She felt his smile against her skin before he pressed another kiss there and pulled away to look at her, brushing the hair from her forehead.

“I’ll have to spend considerable effort making it up to you then.”

“I would imagine so.”

 ( _I forget things._ Always. I’m rude. _Excessively._ I’m shite at public dinners. _Expected._ I’ll show up late or irritable or sometimes not at all. _Which you do now._ I get so bored, I destroy furniture. _Aw, you can help Toby then, he’s on a quest_ (this earned her a nip to the ear lobe). I don’t talk for days at a time, I play the violin when and wherever it suits me. _I’ll get earplugs and more channels on telly._ Stop being so obliging. _Stop trying to scare me off._ ) They stared each other down for a moment. Sherlock broke the tension when his eyes flicked down to her lips and they crashed back into each other.

They were still on the sofa hours later, Sherlock’s head resting against her stomach while she tried to get some reading done. He’d gone off into his mind palace apparently, and was quite comfortable where he was, thank you. Molly was only vaguely surprised at his sudden emergence when he rolled off her and the sofa with the grace of a cat to loot around in his coat pockets which lay strewn across the chair opposite.

“What are you doing?” He held up a nicotine patch, which he fixed to his arm before returning to her. “And that’s necessary because?”

He glowered up at her. “Molly, two days ago you were engaged, the bastard cheated on you, I set him up in a drugs bust, and now we’re together.” He said all this as if there was some kind of obvious conclusion. She only waited, eyes raised (and not a little amused). This annoyed him, he huffed and plopped his head back on her stomach wanting to be petted as before. “It’s a one patch problem, but I’m attempting to calculate how long I have to wait before I drag you into a courthouse for a marriage license.”

Molly chuckled and bent down to kiss his forehead, “Maybe a bit longer than forty-eight hours, yeah?”

“So I had deduced.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I originally saved this as "blahaha" on my laptop and I just found it this morning. Obviously I wrote this a hella long time ago. I have the feeling that Sherlock is probably asexual. Most likely. However, I'm perfectly aware that there's a spectrum and willingness to partake for the sake of their partner. I hope that helps clarify some small-squint-at-them moments in here. Reviews are love; comment in the thingy.
> 
> Find me on tumblr! bringonthedeluge


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